


own the night, let it shine

by detectivemeer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, College, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Short One Shot, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 18:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18183902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: It’s fine. It’s probably fine. They’re probably just in a hurry. Axe murderers are in creepy cabins in the woods, not between Sam’s line home and favorite bar.





	own the night, let it shine

**Author's Note:**

> title from firework by katy perry
> 
> im just a trashbag, rolling through the wind~trying to clear out old drafts~

_?????? the fuc k r u_

Sam shivers, tears a glove off with his teeth, and types out a reply to Riley one-handed.

_tapping out. gonna take the subway home_

He spits out his glove but before he can slip his phone back in his pocket, it buzzes. _wimp. let me know when ur back safe_

Sam grins fondly at the screen, stuffs his hands in his pockets and trudges down the street. The night--Christ, _morning_ , is dark and relatively silent. Cars whiz by, sparse, a few people mill by the stairs of the metro’s entrance a few blocks down, open mouth of the subway a bright spot in the sleeping city. A dog barks, the icy wind ruffles trees and chills Sam’s skin, spreading thin gray clouds over the black night sky. Sam hunches deeper into his jacket, shoving his shoulders up to his ears. He sniffles and licks his lips. Clouds and stars spin when he looks up, blurring together in an astral haze. That last shot of vodka was probably a mistake, but he’s not stumbling, the cold starting to sharpen his dimmed senses.

Like his hearing. He cranes his neck to the left, a little. Something rhythmic, thudding, behind him. He glances back. Fuck. Someone’s following him.

He looks front, speeds his pace up a little. It’s fine. It’s probably fine. They’re probably just in a hurry. Axe murderers are in creepy cabins in the woods, not between Sam’s line home and favorite bar.

He shoots another quick look over his shoulder. The person--man, Sam thinks--has sped up as well, and is gaining ground. He’s walking with a strange hitch in his step. _Like he’s dragging a meat cleaver behind him,_ thinks Sam. Damn, he has _got_ to stop doing horror film marathons with Riley, they only make him paranoid. He kicks himself up to a brisk jog.

Heartbeat in his ears, he can’t quite make out what the guy behind him shouts but Sam doesn’t want to find out. He sprints flat out and _thank God, people_ , scattered around the steps of the subway. Then, his breath catches hard in his throat, and he screams, sudden, panicked, as his sleeve is tugged back. He whirls around on the attacker, arms up defensively.

“You--” the guys wheezes, doubled over, hands on knees. “You forgot--fuck--hold on,” he says, and slings his backpack over his shoulder, zipping it open and rooting around inside.

“Um,” says Sam, inching backwards a step.

The guy--and he is just a guy, and he doesn’t have a meat cleaver, or an axe, or any sort of weapon. Just a thick, argyle cardigan and big, black framed glasses. He’s actually maybe the least threatening person Sam’s ever seen, short, skinny, gasping for breath like he’s dying. Shit.

“You okay?” Sam's hands drift closer--not too close, but he’s starting to feel like an asshole when the guy’s clearly in some sort of trouble.

Cardigan waves off his words, hand coming out of his bag victorious with an inhaler, and takes a deep puff. He pants heavily, after, and pulls something else from his back pocket. “You dropped this. At the bar. I was trying to catch up, but--” he cheeks pinken, even deeper than their winded flush, and he gestures to himself with a self-deprecating smile.

“I thought maybe you were an axe murderer.” Sam admits, then feels massively ridiculous. He can hold his liquor pretty well, but he's well beyond tipsy right now, and the first thing to go is always his brain to mouth filter.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” The guy pauses, a little awkwardly. “Not an axe murderer, for the record. Just Steve.”

“Hi,” says Sam, “Just Steve. I’m just Sam.”

Steve laughs, bright and loud, his whole body lighting up with it. It’s a nice laugh. Now that Sam’s getting a proper look at him in the glow of the streetlights, he realizes Steve’s got a pretty nice everything. Shiny blonde hair he pushes from his eyes--big and blue--mouth quirked in a soft grin. He’s cute.

“You’re cute,” says Sam. The mortification is delayed by alcohol, but it comes. He drops his face into his hands.

Steve blotchy blush spreads to his neck. Somehow, it’s a very appealing blush.

Sam bites the inside of his cheek so that doesn't slip out as well. “Ah, um, thank you.” Steve sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, hesitating. “I have to get back,” he jerks his thumb in the direction of the bar. “I’m the designated sober friend, need to make sure everyone gets home okay. But if you, I mean if you want, I could…”

Sam’s already scrambling to dig his phone from his pocket. Goddamn skinny jeans, another thing to blame Riley for; his pockets are black holes. “Here, give me your number.”

“Oh, and your wallet.” They exchange the items, Steve types himself into the contacts, and hands back the phone with a small half smile.

“I’ll call you. We can, uh, not drinks--coffee?” asks Sam, trying to pull together his most winning smile. Steve's breathless, starry-eyed stare punches pride into Sam's chest--even tipsy, he can pull out that Wilson charm when needed.

“I’ll be waiting,” Steve says, and then pulls a _why did I say that?_ face. It’s cute. It’s really cute. Warmth stretches inside Sam’s chest, like something waking up from a long nap, pouring feeling into sleeping limbs.

-

“Rise and shine, motherfucker,” Riley greets him, tossing a pillow on his face.

Sam groans miserably. He throws the pillow at Riley’s retreating cackle, “Class in an hour, get up!”

Who goes drinking on Sundays? Honestly, what the hell? He needs new friends. And a bucket.

Twenty minutes later, sunglasses perched over his sensitive eyes, coffee slowing waking him up, head pounding like goddamn war drums, he jolts in sudden remembrance. Riley chews his scrambled eggs and lifts an eyebrow as Sam vaults himself across the table to grab his phone.

Riley says, “Okay, weirdo.”

Sam scrolls through his contacts quickly, searching. He smiles, even though every part of his face hurts.

New contact. _Just Steve_.

Warmth unfurls inside him. He’s probably going to nap through his morning classes--seriously, who thinks a Sunday night bar crawl is a good idea? more evidence that listening to Riley is always a dumb idea--but it’s totally worth it.


End file.
